


The Complications of Being a Meatbag

by gerardolopoly



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), Star Wars, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe(ish): some canon divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Darker/more balanced version of canon Revan, Gen, Humour, Male Revan, Multiple Perspectives, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Science Fiction & Fantasy, The Doctor Hates Almost Everyone (but mostly himself), The Doctor on His Own, Time War Angst, Twelfth Doctor post-Clara, Use of the True Sith
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-12 19:14:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7945945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gerardolopoly/pseuds/gerardolopoly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Doctor drops into yet another universe full of murderous robots and violent wars, he only wants to repair the TARDIS and get back to his own reality. However, fate (and an unfortunate hero complex) seem to be working against him. Soon enough, he is roped into keeping a deadly secret from a certain morally questionable ex-Sith Lord, and as he joins the quest for the Star Forge he finds himself with some mysteries of his own to resolve.</p><p>Why are there traces of Time Lord technology in this alternate reality? What is their connection to the Star Maps? And how can the old Time Lord convince an unrepentant Revan that his past decisions were wrong when they remind him so much of his own actions in the hell of the Time War?</p><p>The Doctor has always been adept at solving other people's problems - but now he must confront his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first story I've published on AO3 so I hope somebody enjoys it. It's also on ff.net with the same pen name so if you see it there it is mine (not a copy)! I apologise for my less than brilliant writing skills, cringeworthy sense of humour and awful, over-the-top description but I love both Doctor Who and Star Wars and really wanted to combine them somehow. I thought the interaction between a grey/balanced Revan and the Doctor post-Time War could be very interesting and I hope it turns out that way. This story will (hopefully) span from just before Revan's capture to the end of KotOR. Please let me know if I get any lore wrong from either universe and I'll correct it as quickly as I can. Any kind of feedback is appreciated - all the best to everyone who reads this! (Quick note: I usually italicise thoughts so if anything is present tense, first person and italicised then it's a thought.)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who and I definitely don't own Star Wars (If I did then all the characters I'm writing about might actually still be canon).

All was silent in the frigid vault of space, stars hanging in burning stasis as supernovae flared and planets spun in lethargic tableaux. An energy both new and ancient flowed through the meandering interstellar currents of this place; one few could feel, but all were touched by. Its presence was invigorating, its omnipotence breathtaking... its magnitude terrifying. Yet there was a way to the universe which transcended such planes and forces - the slowly exhaled symphony of the stars and the spaces between them, shaping itself across the millennia, inaudible to all transient creatures. The inexorable turn of the universe was invisible to the minuscule, short-lived sentients enfolded in its black velvet embrace... save perhaps one.

This one particular sentient, however, was not really feeling the privilege. He supposed attempting repairs on the TARDIS's systems in the vicinity of what appeared to be a strange wormhole hadn't been the best idea he'd ever had... but then, neither had the whole situation with the giant warships which had led to the damage in the first place... everything had been completely under control, but before he knew it everyone had started turning into bloodthirsty koalas (honestly, whose idea was that?) and it had all gone downhill from there.

"I'm sorry, old girl, but can you _get your act together?_ "

The only response to his abrasive words was a vibrating, resentful hum from the TARDIS console. The Doctor sighed in wordless apology as the faint residual light from her low-powered systems illuminated his face; old and deeply creased but nowhere near broken, a vitality almost unbefitting of his great age apparent in his shadowed eyes. He ran a long-fingered hand through his mass of springy grey hair. It was times like these when he wished he still had Clara with him... or at least he would, could he remember her in the slightest. His eyes darkened - if that were even possible with his sheer mass of overhanging eyebrow - as the memory, or rather the absence, of his latest and perhaps most complete loss clawed away at his concentration (he would have said it clawed at his hearts, but the human attachment to portraying the muscles responsible for pumping blood around the circulatory system as an emotional symbol had always gone rather over his head).

Nevertheless, the elderly Time Lord had more immediate problems. He trailed his hand gently down the console before him, feeling the pulsing energy of eternity encapsulated within the ancient ship.

He hadn't been wrong - since the TARDIS had veritably thrown herself through an inconvenient tear in space and time, eternity had felt different. Not flawed, or damaged, or tainted: simply skewed, as though the timestream were irrevocably changed. Either that, or the Doctor had somehow found himself in the wrong universe. Either way, the TARDIS was in trouble.

"What did that nasty wormhole do to you?" he muttered. The repetitive sound of the cloister bell hammered at the interior of his skull, drilling instinctive dread into the forefront of his thoughts.

"Shut up!" he yelled at the disconcerting alarm, not really expecting such an ephemeral entity as a sound to obey him. Still, there was no harm in trying. The only response from the ship was a soft, almost imperceptible pulse of light from the TARDIS console... before a deep hum resonated through the control room and the lights cut out altogether.

A moment of terror-charged silence, then...

The repetitive echo of the cloister bell started up again, reverberating through the darkness.

"No, no, no-" The Doctor made an impressively rapid circuit of the console, the shuffling slap of his footsteps loud in the unnatural silence. After an instant of frantic motion, his arms dropped to his sides and he stood, immobile in the ringing emptiness.

The TARDIS was not dead; he knew that much. Yet she seemed somehow incapable of functioning as she had been designed to... as though something was disrupting her. He didn't know what this proverbial spanner in the works signified, or where it came from - but he could guess as to its nature.

The Doctor was as attuned to the invisible ebb and flow of the universe as a being of his kind could be. He felt the turn of worlds and the transient flare of stars. As the lives of those who surrounded him surged forwards at the toppling crest of linear time, his simply stood as a deadweight in the current, impervious to time's cruelties - and to its kindnesses. He knew the universe... and now, he did not know it at all, because there was something here.

It was akin to a ringing at the edge of his hearing, or a flicker of shadow in the corner of his eye. It was imperceptible, yet to ignore its presence was impossible. It was an energy, infinite and all-pervading, spreading with effortless alacrity through past and future alike, moulding itself into the very basis for life, shaping the universe into flawless equilibrium. It was disconcerting, and more mystical than the Doctor could ever bring himself to believe, but its most disturbing characteristic was that, like Clara's memory, it was discernible only through its absence. He was not attuned to it in the slightest, and its existence only served to affirm what he knew with building certainty.

This universe was not his.

An unmistakeable stillness seeped upwards into the soles of his feet, and he came to understand that, somewhere in the last few moments of frenetic activity, the TARDIS had landed. When or where exactly she had landed, he had no way of telling... well... save one.

With a muffled grumble, the old Time Lord strode across the shadowed floor, flung open the TARDIS doors with a resounding slam and shouted:

"What did you do to my ship?!"

The words reverberated outwards, ricocheting within what the Doctor saw to be a contorted knot of trees and undergrowth. The TARDIS appeared to have landed in some kind of jungle, coming to rest in what just about passed for a small and rather unimpressive clearing. The atmosphere of the tangled forest seemed breathable, thankfully; the air tasted of dirt and sickly-sweet decay, a rotting humidity which clung immediately to the skin. Through the few spaces not occupied by snaking alien undergrowth, he could see the land ahead drop suddenly into a crumbling precipice, leaving only air steaming gently in its wake. And, hanging in that very air, was the strange energy which had disrupted the TARDIS, somehow even more potent than before.

The Doctor was about to perform a sharp 180 degree turn, because inhospitable jungle worlds really didn't agree with him… and attempting impossible repairs on the TARDIS for a few days or centuries suddenly didn't seem like such a terrible idea... when he felt the unmistakeable, cold pressure of a gun barrel dig against his spine.

_Oh, brilliant. A trigger-happy imbecile. Why is it that whatever universe I get thrown into, there are always trigger-happy imbeciles?_

The elderly Time Lord was about to turn and berate his attacker for their poor lifestyle choices, when a voice issued from behind him.

“Request: Desist your screeching, meatbag.”

For a heartsbeat, the words morphed themselves into the baritone rasp of a Dalek - but the illusion dispelled itself as quickly as it came. This voice, while robotic, was far too emotive. And… _meatbag_? The Doctor had many names, and would have many more: The Oncoming Storm, the Beast, the Valeyard… but The Meatbag was certainly a new one.

“I have desisted.” He spun on one heel, gesturing aggressively towards his face. “Look at me - I’m desisting!”

“Mocking appeasement: Very well, grey one.”

_Grey one? There’s another one for the list._

The source of the voice, he now saw, appeared to be some kind of droid - tall, humanoid and a deep rust-red in colour, clutching a large rifle of unfamiliar design, its orange photoreceptors glowing with joyful menace. A nickname for the metal creature sprung into his mind… one he had already used to refer to a malfunctioning Dalek, no less. _Ah, well,_ he decided, _a little recycling has never gone amiss._

“You there. Rusty,” he called - which was hardly necessary, but it gave him a very satisfying feeling of control over the situation - “Why are you loitering? Stop loitering. I don’t appreciate loiterers near my ship.”

Rusty looked suitably affronted.

“Protestation: Why, wrinkled one, I am doing nothing of the sort! I am simply debating whether the act of blasting your sloshy, water-filled self into several hundred pieces would be detrimental to my mission.”

The Doctor was unsure whether to laugh, run or give an impassioned speech on the merits of pacifism. Whoever programmed this droid certainly seemed to have had a unique sense of humour.

“That would be a very bad idea,” he stalled. “You see, if you were to shoot me, I would just keep on regenerating. I can assure you it would become really quite boring.”

“Wistful reply: Oh, if only that were true. Rekillability is a feature I have always longed for someone to program into you meatbags… it is a personal fantasy of mine... but no, it is too good to be true. The galaxy always seems determined to deny me the simple pleasure of engaging in indiscriminate slaughter.”

“How terrible for you,” muttered the Doctor, the ground’s appetising concoction of mud and decaying plant life sucking at the soles of his shoes as he backed gradually away; as fun as this little chat had been, he had much better things to do than engage in conversation with a homicidal droid. “Now, I’ll just be getting back to my ship…”

“Correction: Negative, meatbag.” There was something close to glee in the mechanical tone of the killing machine’s voice as it continued. “Clarification: I am going to thoroughly enjoy blasting you to pieces.”

_Well, that wasn’t good._

It was only the Time Lord’s wealth of experience with being shot at over the centuries which led him to throw himself aside almost before the droid had finished speaking, an action which saved him from a quick fourteenth regeneration as Rusty unleashed a precise burst of red, glowing energy bolts. The shots whipped past the Doctor’s head, blasting a smouldering crater into a nearby tree. Drawing on reflexes a being of his age shouldn’t rightfully have, he grasped a ridged, vine-entangled branch and pulled himself behind the heavy barrier of a tree’s trunk.

His respite was momentary at best - just as his back collided with the tree, concentrated gouts of flame raced to circle it and he had no choice but to leap from cover, coat singed and hearts battering against his ribs from the unexpected exertion. Nevertheless, his antics with the tree had bought him a quarter-second, and that was all he needed. Adjusting the familiar weight of his sonic screwdriver in his palm, he extended his arm towards Rusty, who was already raising the rifle for another shot… _One pulse, at the right frequency, right into its behaviour core_ … The Doctor’s hands followed his mind’s command in an instant, and something sparked silently within the droid’s tall form, its photoreceptors dimming as its systems shut themselves down temporarily. A last stray bolt of energy thudded into a tree behind the Time Lord, tearing through his coat and several layers of skin at his shoulder on its way… a killing shot averted by Rusty’s suddenly corrupted targeting systems as it completed its shutdown.

_It always comes down to fighting, doesn’t it? I mean, why bother with an intelligent solution when you can just bash things or shoot at them until you get your way?_

Ignoring the searing surface wound - but feeling more than small amount of resentment towards the damage to his outfit - the Doctor moved to examine the droid as it stood motionless amongst the trailing vines of the jungle.

“You are a very rude robot, you know that?” he told it, pocketing his sonic screwdriver.

Taking its lack of response as a sign that it was fully powered down, he circled its segmented form thoughtfully as the alien noises of the jungle sifted through his ears. The murderous thing was clearly well-made, and it had a forceful, distinct personality which would be rare in mass-produced machines (it reminded him slightly of that violence-obsessed potato,whose name the Doctor couldn't really be bothered to recall, crossed with a Dalek) so it followed logically that it was somebody’s - or something’s - personal creation. Who would make a droid of this kind, and for what purpose, was a question the Doctor wasn't sure he wanted to consider.

Still, he had next to no information regarding the universe he was in, or the infuriating force which had disrupted his TARDIS, and the memory banks of machines were infinitely more reliable than those of... well... meatbags, as Rusty had so eloquently put it.

Coming to a decision, he approached the machine, peeled back a rust-red panel, and went to work.

Despite its manner, the droid was beautiful. Someone had evidently taken great care in constructing it, and some of its programming was downright ingenious... not to say that the Doctor was impressed with the evil creature, of course; he could have done better, of course, and _some of those circuits..._ no wonder the thing was crazed!

Nevertheless, while the technology was recognisable, it, like everything else in this odd universe, appeared somehow subtly different to anything he had previously encountered. Thus, his ability to tamper with it was limited.

After what could have been anywhere from an hour to half an Earth day, the Doctor finally surrendered to the inevitable. Stepping back with a faint squelch from the ground underfoot, he turned to face Rusty.

"Wakey, wakey..." he muttered.

Light pooled in the droid's triangular photoreceptors as it straightened up, its head moving rapidly from side to side as it orientated itself, then finally coming to rest facing the Doctor. With unbelievable speed, its arms snapped upwards, its metal fingers tightening around the trigger of its rifle...

And nothing happened.

"Exclamation: What fresh hell is this?!"

The Doctor simply smiled, trying to convince himself he wasn't drawing amusement from the droid's horrified manner.

"Diagnostic: It appears my delicate programming has been brutalised, and I am now incapable of harming you. Wonderful."

"Correct." The Time Lord gave his best devious grin. "I bypassed the need for an external stimulus which was blocking access to your memory core - only in effect whilst you are talking to me, of course. I also programmed you to consider me a secondary master, and to afford me privileges as such. Which would explain why you can't exterminate me."

The droid, however, didn't entirely seem to be listening; it was too busy soliloquising on its misfortune and describing in graphic detail each agonising torture it would inflict on the Doctor once its programming was returned to normal. The Doctor in question was less than intimidated by its threats, but he wasn't used to being ignored.

"Have you developed a fault?" he demanded, cutting Rusty's speech short. "I have questions for you to answer."

"Sarcasm: Answering questions? Why, I can hardly wait. After all, it is my primary function."

"All right, all right." The Doctor's patience was approximately as long as his attention span, and it really wasn't proving to be long enough. _Honestly, who programs a droid for sarcasm_? Once again, he decided not to consider the question. Instead, he began his interrogation. "First of all, why did you attack me?"

The droid was visibly struggling, its loyalty to its master making it reluctant to divulge its secrets to a potentially hostile stranger. However, the Doctor's reprogramming gave it little choice. It would answer any question he posed, no matter how classified the information.

"Explanation: I was using this plateau as a vantage point to observe the meatbag settlement below. Your ill-advised yelling and stumbling about was compromising my position, and as such, you had to be terminated."

It sounded like an excuse, and probably was, given Rusty's penchant for unadulterated violence, but it was plausible enough.

"And why exactly were you observing this settlement?"

"Answer: My assassination protocols detail that I must observe and memorise the daily routine of a targeted meatbag before I select a point at which to terminate its pitiful existence."

Revulsion fortified itself at the back of the Doctor's throat.

"Assassination. So that's what you do. You exterminate anyone you are told to, without question? Of course you do; I can't expect rubbish robots like you to think for yourselves." He fixed the the robot in question with a dismissive glare, folding his arms. "You're not even a droid. You're just a big, walking weapon. Like a soldier, but... rustier."

"Objection: Why, grey one, you wound me! I am not rusty. In fact, I am in prime condition. You are correct: burning holes through selected meatbags in the service of my master is my primary function, but I do have a personal reason for my actions."

The Doctor raised an eyebrow.

"Of course you do. And that reason is your addiction to murder and carnage. which..."

"Interjection: Which was also undoubtedly programmed into me by my master; you are correct. Ah, what glorious irony."

Before he could question whether it fully qualified as irony, the Doctor lost interest in the current topic of conversation (as was his wont), and moved on with yet another question.

"Yes. Whatever. Boring. Now, tell me what's wrong with your universe."

There was a moment of silence as water dripped from leaves in the sickly air of the jungle.

"Query: What are you talking about, wrinkled one?"

The Time Lord gestured impatiently. "Your universe. There's some sort of force in it. Big, mystical, all-encompassing, extremely annoying... can't miss it. It's messing with my ship."

The droid's voice expressed what sounded like a tentative interest when it spoke next.

"Query: Are you referring to the Force?"

"A force, yes. I said it was a force. But _what_ force? You're not much use if you can't be more specific than that." The Doctor wished he'd had the good fortune to be stuck in a jungle with an intelligent droid.

"Condescending explanation: They energy you are asking about is not just a force; it is the Force. That is the only name meatbags give to it."

The Time Lord scoffed. "That isn't very imaginative of them."

"Agreement: Indeed it is not."

"And what is 'the Force', exactly?"

"Definition: The Force: an energy field which forms the basis for all meatbag life in the galaxy and can be connected to or used by certain individuals, who often form into sects such as those infuriating pseudo-pacifist Jedi or the infinitely superior Sith."

The Doctor replied with the obvious deduction: "Just guessing wildly here, but does your master happen to be one of these Sith?"

"Confirmation: You are correct: my master is a Sith. He is also statistically likely to thoroughly eviscerate you once he discovers that you have corrupted my programming and forced me to reveal this information... a spectacle which I shall enjoy immensely."

 _Of course_. Judging by Rusty's charming personality, the Sith probably weren't particularly friendly people. The Doctor had reached the same conclusion about the Jedi, of course; both groups sounded like religious sects, and if there was anything more dangerous than a large group of collectively delusional fanatics, it was a large group of collectively delusional fanatics with the command of a mysterious and powerful energy field. And so, his train of thought inevitably led him to contemplate this field itself. This Force clearly matched the description of the energy he had felt - or rather not felt. He supposed he wasn't one of those individuals who could connect to it; he couldn't be, given that he hadn't been born into its universe. In the past, when he wore a younger face, he might have distrusted such an entity, tried to look for its source or prove its falsehood, but he was older now, and he knew reality better. He could feel the space the Force's absence left, and he knew that it was as ancient and vast as this universe. So, as counterintuitive as it felt, he accepted its presence. But that didn't mean he had to like it. In fact, there was very little about this universe that he liked. The ancient Time Lord had enough experience in the field of solving other people's problems to be able to tell subconsciously when there were problems to be solved, and this galaxy felt as though it were rife with them.

As he turned back to Rusty and asked the resentful droid his next probing question, he tried to convince himself that he was daunted and exhausted by the very prospect of resolving yet another crisis - to no avail. However he tried to suppress it, the familiar onrushing tide of a challenge and the thrilling unknown tore through his weary façade. This universe was not the star-splattered backyard he was used to; he could smell trouble on the mildly soggy jungle wind. This galaxy seemed conflicted. It felt wounded.

And who better to heal a wound than a Doctor?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to mention that I'm following ideas about Revan from KotOR 2 here more than TOR canon because I don't particularly like TOR or the Revan novel. However, I will use the True Sith because I don't mind the idea in itself and Revan's 'canon' appearance because it fits with my first KOTOR character. I apologise if you don't like my portrayal of characters and events. Some of it might be canon-divergent (especially Revan's thoughts on Malak still being affected by the Sith Emperor's mind control) but those elements won't feature heavily. I'm always nervous when working with iconic characters like the Doctor in case they're ooc so please be kind although constructive criticism is welcome. Please correct me if I get any lore wrong (especially DW which I'm probably weaker in at the moment). All the best and thanks for reading!

A Sith fleet hung poised within the stagnant darkness of interstellar space, the maws of its great cruisers open in barely restrained hunger for the coming battle. In a matter of hours the ships would enter hyperspace, stars stretching into starlines as they raced towards what promised to be a major engagement with the Republic. For now, however, they simply lay in silent anticipation, their black carapaces shining with reflected starlight.

Darth Revan stood masked and motionless atop the grey metal of his flagship's bridge, letting the holoimage of yet another destroyed facility burn itself into the back of his eyes. He had plans to finalise, orders to give and preparations to perform before the upcoming battle - but for now he was occupied with a far more pressing concern.

"You did this... why, exactly?" His voice betrayed no emotion as he addressed the lifesize hologram of a tall, bald and heavily built man positioned across from him.

"Fear," Darth Malak stated simply. His gaze was accusatory - that much was clear even in his holographic, flickering obscurity. "It is our most effective weapon - you said as much yourself. Our enemies must fear our power. They need to know the consequences of resistance."

The robotic menace of his artificial voice made him sound less than Human, and Revan almost recoiled slightly before he caught himself. Now was not the time to indulge in thoughts of what Malak was becoming - especially since he could feel his apprentice's familiar presence pushing at his outer mental defenses.

"Bombarding strategic targets is not the same as senselessly destroying parts of the galaxy's infrastructure," he replied, allowing irritation and disapproval to barb his voice. "Spaceports, resource-rich areas, trade routes, major manufacturing plants like the one you just obliterated... we have already destroyed enough of them to hinder the Republic. You forget that they are vital to our success as well. They give give the galaxy strength... and we need a strong galaxy. Have you forgotten our goal, Malak?"

This was the point in their conversations where the bald man would usually back down - or suffer the consequences - but this time he seemed determined to push his luck.

"I could ask the same of you, Master," Malak said, articulating every word precisely in poorly veiled anger. "Mercy has no place among the Sith."

_Mercy? This isn't mercy; it's pragmatism. You should know that._

"Neither do wastefulness and idiocy." Revan kept his voice sharp and even. "Do you question my judgement?"

"Yes, I do," Malak growled. "You show mercy to those who do not deserve it; you are blind to the full potential of the Star Forge... you fear the true power of the dark side. You are weak."

Revan searched his mind for a reply, and found a hundred: explanations for his reserved attitude towards the Star Forge, the logic and calculation behind his so-called 'mercy' - but the words he truly wanted to say were waiting behind each justification. _Old friend... you're the weak one. All this senseless destruction, your refusal to see the wisdom in anything I do - you know I can only draw one conclusion from this..._

Before he could speak, the masked Sith Lord felt his apprentice's power surge outwards, fueled by anger, a breaking wave of malicious dark side energy rushing through the space between their flagships, arcing through air and metal. Revan instinctively shielded himself in the Force, and the attack dissipated against his invisible barrier. Nevertheless, his mind was left reeling with consternation. _He's lashing out in anger now?_ Revan knew that Malak could be headstrong and impulsive - Force, he knew that better than anyone. But this...

He was incredulous at his apprentice's actions for a fraction of a second, before he came to a realisation - one so obvious that he briefly wanted to Force choke himself for not recognising it earlier.

_Malak isn't lashing out; he's testing my power. He's challenging me again._

His understanding of the situation complete, Revan wasted no time in acting. He brought his arm upwards, gathering the power of the Force within him as his wrist rotated and he curled his fingers slowly inwards into a fist. Across the metal landscape of space and starships, Malak felt an invisible vice of durasteel close around his neck. Before he could muster the power to defend himself, searing pain coiled upwards, twisting towards the base of his skull as his throat convulsed and his lungs crushed themselves into a singular point of agony. Even the clumsy prosthetic which filled the space left by his severed lower jaw seemed to be conspiring against him as it pressed inwards with unyielding cruelty. He could not muster the concentration to sustain himself with the Force; darkness encroached on his vision and molten rage pooled in his stomach as he fell to his knees, his view of the dull metal floor below him tinged a blurry blood-red.

Revan knew exactly how to inflict pain; he pushed Malak to the edge of unconsciousness, but no further, so he could still snatch a convulsive breath, and regret it immediately because it was never enough and only prolonged the spread of incapacitating, white-hot agony lancing through his body.

Another thing Revan knew was that his apprentice's dissent would not be suppressed by such suffering; he would simply warp the feeling into fury, from fury into strength, from strength into power. Such was the way of the Sith. He could see the rage already, building in the hunched posture of Malak's holographic image as it knelt unwillingly before him. Not for the first time, Revan found himself wishing he had a more effective method of discipline. He couldn't help but believe that brute force and torture, while they had many uses, only bred further discontent... but spending his time mulling over such problems was counterproductive, so he simply focused on the task at hand.

 _I need to demonstrate complete control; complete dominance,_ he told himself, channelling all his concentration into maintaining the strength and unassailability of his grip. Revan entertained no delusions of invincibility: Malak was strong. In fact, he was strong enough to challenge his current Master if it came down to a saber duel. For the sake of the war effort and for the sake of of whatever unity they had left, Revan couldn't let his apprentice become aware of that particular fact - so he continued to inflict as much agony as he could, to suppress any spasms of resistance with immediate and uncompromising strength. _Strength is all Malak respects now._

Finally, when he felt the kneeling Sith's burning defiance compress itself back into simmering resentment, Revan released his Force grip, letting his arm fall silently to his side. Malak rose immediately, something painfully close to hatred apparent in the predatory rise and fall of his shoulders.

"If the traditions of the dark side are so important to you," Revan said coldly, "then challenge me in person next time you want to inform me of my _weakness_."

He cut the holotransmission, and the monstrous image of his former friend flickered into nothing.

Revan's eyes closed briefly beneath his mask as he stood still for a few moments. He hadn't ended their argument because he had nothing more to say; in fact, the list of things he wanted to tell Malak - or ask of him - could probably have filled the entire Jedi Archives. He couldn't remember exactly when their friendship had ended, or when the more efficient master-apprentice relationship which had followed it had deteriorated into this open hostility... but somehow both had happened in the space of a mere few years, and best friends had gradually become rivals. Now, all Revan knew was that their constant infighting was hindering their campaign against the Republic. Running a war was notably more difficult with the threat of betrayal and disloyalty waiting around every corner. _But then... betrayal, selfishness, disloyalty... those are all byproducts of the Sith philosophy, aren't they?_

Lately, Revan had found himself doubting the basic tenets of the dark side more and more. The ideals of the Sith were, of course, superior to the inconsistent pacifism and weak-minded platitudes of the Jedi - but they were far from perfect. His thoughts drifted to his holocron, concealed in the catacombs of the Rakatan Temple of the Ancients. A great number of his doubts and theories regarding the ideology of the dark side were sealed in its matrices - he could only hope that one day they would be found and understood by someone with the time and wisdom to expand upon them.

Still, he couldn't blame the theoretical contradictions of the dark side for his and Malak's disagreements - not completely, at least. The true reason for his erstwhile friend's behaviour was far more substantial. It had a name, a location, a goal...

Often, Revan was reluctant to even think about the unseen threat which waited in the Unknown Regions, for fear of falling under its dark influence again. He had thought he and Malak had fully broken free from its control: they now fought the Republic with the aim of strengthening it against an inevitable war. But in those rare moments when he let his guard down or became distracted, he could still feel the remnant of the Sith Emperor's manipulation trying to take root somewhere in the back of his mind. In its incomplete form, it urged him to weaken the galaxy instead of reinforcing it, to give in to destructive instincts. And the more Revan listened to it, the more its voice reminded him of Malak's.

_So... Malak is more susceptible to these subtle mental assaults than I am. Either that or he just never completely broke free in the first place._

Whatever the case, he was becoming increasingly difficult to control. Revan had lost count of the number of time's something resembling today's charade had played out. By now, the pair were arguing whenever they spoke... yet still there had only been one true duel between them: Malak's severed lower jaw acted as a constant reminder of his loss that day.

Instead of a final, decisive confrontation, they were trapped in a strange stalemate of repeatedly suppressed hostility - a situation which could not be sustained for much longer. Revan could feel Malak's low-burning anger from across the space which separated them, and he knew that one day soon he would be betrayed completely. Yet still he could not sense exactly when, or where, or how it would happen - he simply had to be prepared to deal with it when the time came.

Dismissing his useless thoughts, he cast a glance around the bridge. The spacious area was largely empty, save a few guards, higher-ranking officers and Dark Jedi Masters. It seemed that they had either not noticed his and Malak's interaction or chosen wisely to ignore it - he suspected the latter. Witnessing the disagreement of their leaders could not be good for morale, but there was very little that could be done to hide their altercations at this point, least of all from Force-adepts.

Once again, Revan cast his thoughts aside: he really didn't have time for pointless contemplation, and the final preparations for the upcoming battle had been delayed long enough already.

He turned, footsteps echoing across polished metal as he began to cross the bridge's central walkway - then stopped dead in his tracks.

With varying delays, every other Force-user in the room did the same, turning one by one to stare at an area of empty air directly above the centre of the walkway - their faces betraying fear and curiosity in equal measure as... as something began to materialise there. This something wasn't yet visible, but what drew the attention of every Force-sensitive was the strange disturbance it created in the Force.

This disturbance had not been there seconds ago - Revan was sure of that. It was unlike anything he'd sensed before: it felt devoid of the Force, but it was not a temporary bubble like those created by ysalimiri, nor was it a wound in the Force like Malachor. It simply jarred with the Force, as though it had been born in its absence. The disturbance which was flickering into existence before him felt, to put it simply, like a door to a reality without the Force.

By the time the weakest Force-adept in the room registered the disturbance's presence, it was already pulsing into visibility. An eerie wheezing sound rattled through the the starship's enclosed air... then, all at once, a feeling became a physical object, dropping to the floor with a shuddering slam.

The snap-hiss-buzz of igniting lightsabers and the whisper of blaster pistols drawn from holsters ricocheted across the bridge, and Revan found that his hand had instinctively dropped to the familiar hilt of his own saber as he examined the strange object which now lay a few steps ahead of him.

It was an elongated box tall enough to fit an average Wookiee, a deep, battered blue in colour, with the words 'POLICE BOX' emblazoned across its front in High Galactic. It seemed to be lying on its side, and a regular, muffled sound vibrated from its interior - an alarm or siren with a bell-like resonance which sent primal dread rippling through the minds of almost all who heard it.

A few officers to Revan's left started a hesitant advance towards the box, blasters primed, but a commanding gesture from the Sith Lord stopped them. Something told him that this box and its contents posed no threat - still, the instinct which was providing this information couldn't be entirely reliable, and a certain all-powerful energy field didn't seem inclined to reveal its opinion on the matter.

A few seconds of taut silence passed before Revan reached experimentally towards the box, and it rose a few metres into the air. It seemed that while its interior was devoid of the Force, it could be manipulated like any other object. He rotated it gently until it hung upright above the walkway, then drew it towards him in order to examine it more closely.

The thing was primitive, at least in appearance, and it seemed to be composed of wooden panels - not exactly the kind of construction he would have expected from a bomb or a reconnaissance device. Besides, everything about it simply felt too alien for it to be Republic tech. Nothing could materialise from empty air the way this box had without the use of the Force or ancient Rakatan technology... unless it was equipped with a stealth field generator, and if that had been the case every Force-user in the vicinity would have sensed its presence long before it revealed itself. In other words, this strange object was something entirely new.

Just as Revan came to this conclusion, a blast of thick smoke spilled from the blue box floating before him, blinding the officers standing on either side of the walkway. The clamor of the strange bell blared across the bridge, suddenly tripled in intensity as a humanoid smudge stumbled from the capsule's sparking, smoke-clogged interior, shut its outer door with a hurried slam, and dropped with a thud to the starship's polished floor. As the smoke dissipated across the walkway, the humanoid smudge became more defined - until it took the shape of an old man, his velvet coat and single remaining boot blackened with burn marks, his glare apparent below a tufted expanse of grey hair.

And so, for the umpteenth time in his long life, the Doctor found himself rushing (so to speak) out of the frying pan and into the warship full of heavily armed Sith.

"Oh, will you all stop pointing guns at me?!" he demanded, his gruff voice filling the space in a commanding manner. "I'm unarmed, I've got one shoe and my ship's on fire! I'm not exactly a threat."

In Revan's experience, people who declared themselves not to be threats were usually lying... and the fact that the old man had just referred to a small wooden box as a ship didn't lend his words much in the way of credibility. His unorthodox arrival, his strange manner and appearance - these were probably ploys designed to catch an opponent off guard, and the Dark Lord of the Sith wasn't fooled so easily.

"Search this man and escort him to the detention block," he commanded, his voice every bit as authoritative as the newcomer's. In unexpected situations like this one, showing control and certainty was paramount. "Seize his 'ship' and search it. I will question him myself."

The armoured guards stationed at the bridge's entrance moved immediately to flank the new arrival, manhandling him towards the door with their blasters drawn and primed. Revan blanked out the old man's pointed barrage of remarks; any interaction with this unusual, confident prisoner would be on his own terms.

The decision to imprison the man immediately had largely been one based on caution - but Revan also felt a strong need to take complete control of the situation. This visitor and his ship were unknown quantities. Both were fully, unprecedentedly absent from the Force, and that immediately negated many of the Sith Lord's advantages when dealing with them. He smiled with bitter amusement beneath his mask. _Kreia was probably right about me. The Force is everything I am. Without it..._

For the third time that day, Darth Revan suppressed his wandering thoughts and continued with the task at hand.

Being trapped in a cylindrical energy cage in the belly of a starship belonging to an evil empire wasn't exactly a new situation for the Doctor, but neither was it one he had intended to end up in.

After learning some of the recent history and politics of this galaxy from Rusty (or HK-whatsit, or whatever the annoying robot had kept insisting its designation was), as well as the specifics of the droid's master and allegiance, the old Time Lord had - as much as he hated to admit it - been at a bit of a loss. Neither side of the current conflict sounded particularly appealing: one one hand the Doctor had had a few less than enjoyable experiences with High Councils, and on the other... well... the title of 'Dark Lord' wasn't exactly a reliable indicator of a pleasant character.

With that in mind, he had spent some time considering the matter of which side he ought to approach first - and had completely failed to come to a conclusion. Indeed, he might have been pondering the issue for a century... if the TARDIS hadn't detected something.

He still wasn't sure exactly what had prompted the ship's systems to power up again, but somehow limited functionality had been restored to her. It was entirely possible that this was due to the impossible signal which had been pulsing faintly within the vast range of her scanners. At first, the Doctor had been sure she was malfunctioning... but the more he examined the signal, the more he had begun to believe it was genuine. If the TARDIS's sensors were correct, there was familiar technology scattered across this galaxy. Not only familiar technology, but _Time Lord_ technology. How this was possible, he had no idea - but to say his interest had been piqued would have been an understatement.

So, naturally, he had immediately taken off, flying the TARDIS as best he could towards the nearest source of the impossible signal... which, of course, just had to have been the location Rusty had given for the bulk of the Sith fleet.

As soon as they had exited the time vortex (he may have unintentionally slipped through time just a tiny bit) the TARDIS's systems had been doomed once again. The presence of something - or someone - broadcasting an obnoxious amount of Force power had somehow disrupted most of her functions... so he had simply done his best to stabilise her before all of space-time could destroy itself (he didn't want to have to reboot the universe again). Then he had made a rapid exit before the control room's toxic conditions could send him into an early regeneration.

And so a flagship had been waiting for him, and so had Sith with laser swords and a Dark Lord... and now he was imprisoned in one of three flickering, humming energy cages in a dimly lit, slightly oppressive rectangular room in the corner of a Sith cruiser with absolutely no sign of the elusive Time Lord technology he had been searching for. _Brilliant_.

Fortunately, the Doctor didn't have much time to lament this turn of events, because a figure was already entering his dull detention block: a figure which quickly revealed itself to be no other than Rusty's master. The unfortunate droid had referred to the Sith leader as Darth Revan - a name the Doctor had actually bothered to remember, since its allusion was so obvious it might as well have been a nickname itself.

The room's unusual lighting inked the Sith Lord's evil-mask and evil-robes combo with shadows, dusting the (presumably) arcane designs which adorned his well-worn armour with blood-red light as he crossed the room in an unhurried manner and came to a thoughful stop a few metres from the Doctor. The menacing and shadowy effect, the Time Lord reflected, was probably intentional. Even beyond the physical plane, the weight of Revan's commanding presence was noticeable - and probably even chilling to weaker-minded beings. _Humans and their theatrics._

"I can't say I think much of your hospitality," the Doctor remarked critically before his would-be-interrogator could speak. "Do you treat all your guests like this?"

His voice dropped heavily in the room's ominous atmosphere, lingering unnaturally against the faint crackle of leaping energy fields.

"Only the uninvited ones." The Dark Lord replied, his authoritative and unnatural tone betraying no emotion. The alteration of his voice was probably a function of the battered red and black metal which obscured his face - and with it any evidence of his humanity. The mask was a melodramatic touch, but the Doctor had to admit it was a good intimidation technique - or at least would be, if it were put to use on someone who could actually be intimidated.

"I was invited," the Doctor shot back with feigned impatience. "Ask your murderous metal boyfriend."

Darth Revan was probably surprised that someone had managed to survive a conversation with his pet death machine, let alone learn confidential information from the ghastly thing - but he gave no visual cue to that effect, at least not that the Doctor could detect. Instead, he responded neutrally.

"He's not here. Care to explain in his place?"

"There isn't much to tell, really. Rusty told me all about you, and I fiddled around with its programming a bit..." The Doctor allowed himself a shrug and the hint of a self-satisfied smile. "It won't be coming back any time soon."

The Dark Lord of the Sith was silent for a moment, as though processing the information and considering how best to react. In the Doctor's experience, homicidal robots were usually considered valuable by brainless leaders of evil empires, so he was half expecting Revan to throw a fit and lay waste to an innocent control panel at the news of Rusty's loss - but somehow, the human's response was annoyingly matter-of-fact.

"I've killed people for less."

_Well, points for honesty, I suppose..._

Still, the conversation was becoming incredibly tedious, and the Doctor could almost feel his brain cells slipping away as the pointless charade played out, so he decided to speed things up a little.

"Stop threatening me. It's getting boring. I know you won't kill me: I'm too interesting."

"Really?" The Sith Lord's voice displayed its first genuine emotion: a record-breaking slight hint of amusement.

Encouraged, the Doctor decided to skip the next minute of predictable conversation and get straight to the point.

"I materialised in the middle of your secret evil fleet with a wooden box which surpasses all your technology, your Force can't touch me, and my eyebrows have more attack power than your strongest battle cruiser. I'm not just interesting. I'm fascinating."

Despite the truth of everything the Doctor had just said, Revan's next words sounded skeptical.

"Fascinating? I think the word you're looking for there is 'insufferable'."

It was a teasing comment, not meant as a true insult or intended to be taken seriously. Yet somehow the casual normality of the statement affected the Doctor more than any intimidating persona or threat ever would. If Rusty was to be believed, this masked being was responsible for the destruction of worlds, for literal billions of deaths, all in the name of what - some meaningless crusade for power? As much as he wished he hadn't, the Doctor had met mass-murdering war leaders like this before. They had always been emotionless, dramatic, larger-than-life, simultaneously less and more than than a true member of whatever species they belonged to. Up until this moment, Darth Revan had seemed to fit the archetype - but his last comment had shown something which people like him shouldn't rightfully be allowed to possess. Somehow, this particular Dark Lord had a gentle sense of humour, a guiltless humanity. This was what made the old Time Lord angry beyond reason or belief. But... _the Doctor doesn't give into anger..._ so he swallowed down a philosophical tirade, and let his words express only a rough disbelief.

"Oh, come on! You can't go blowing up planets all over the place and expect people to be nice to you." That last sentence was something he wouldn't have dared to say a few centuries ago, but now that Gallifrey had been restored to the universe in all its infuriating glory... he could take the moral high ground all he wanted, so take the moral high ground he did. " _Insufferable_ is what you get when you're evil."

The Sith Lord didn't seem affronted by the Doctor's assessment of his morality. Nevertheless, like any self-respecting villain, he moved quickly to defend his motives.

"I'm necessary," he stated simply.

The Doctor scoffed. "That's what humans always say. You lot are never going to come to terms with your own insignificance, are you?"

The Time Lord didn't believe his own words, of course: in all his travels he had never met anyone who didn't have a daunting amount of significance, no matter the length or scale of their life. But in this moment he was so full of righteous anger - and maybe a small amount of selfish desire to see the Sith Lord put in his place - that he continued: "Go on, then. Are you going to hurry up and explain why you're so 'necessary', or are you just here to stand around like an idiot?"

Once again, Darth Revan ignored the taunt, refusing to respond to what he probably saw as petty insults. Instead, he began to speak.

"I, as an individual, am not necessary..." he conceded, his voice cold as always, "...but the cause I fight for is. The Republic as it stands today is corrupt and complacent, and becomes more so by the minute. The near-sighted Senators are lost in a bureaucratic quagmire. There are too many politicians, too many agendas, and too little certainty. Still, however ineffective the government is, the Jedi are worse. They shield themselves in their enclaves, meditating on their shadowy premonitions of a threat but taking no action. They believe they are all-knowing, superior beings - but they are insular and self-serving, trapped in introspection." Revan stood unmoving, facing the Doctor, each word a concentrated attack intended to make their recipient feel each statement personally in a strengthening belief which became far more than the sum of his words. "When the Mandalorians turned on the Republic, the Jedi simply watched. They remained inactive, hid away as worlds burned before their eyes, all because of some vague fear of a greater threat. Would you have refused to act in such a situation? I did not. I gathered every like-minded being, and we acted. Together, we, the most resolute and independent of the Jedi, stood against the Mandalorian threat, and we won. We saved the Republic and the livelihoods of its citizens - but still, the floundering Republic is weak. The Jedi who refused to protect it are weak. When a greater threat arises in a few centuries' time - and I know it will - they will not confront it, and this time we won't have the strength to do so in their place. The galaxy as we know it will be destroyed - and for what? The insubstantial premonitions of the Jedi? The ineffective bickering of politicians? The galaxy needs strengthening, and the corruption of the Republic and the Jedi runs too deep for it to be done internally. Darth Malak and I understand the threat. We've touched the mind of the enemy, and we can - we must defeat it. So we will attack the Republic and the Jedi, we will tear them down and we will build a better galaxy from the infrastructure they leave behind. The galaxy will stand stronger than ever: strong enough to face the true darkness which waits at its borders. Whatever the Republic or the Jedi may tell you, I am not some deluded prisoner of the dark side. I'm fighting for the same cause I have always been fighting for: the future of the galaxy and every being within it. _That_ is why I am necessary."

 _Evil is never necessary,_ the Doctor wanted to say. _You may think your destruction is just or righteous - but you're lying to yourself._ If the Last Great Time War taught me anything, it taught me that. But the Time Lord held his tongue, if only because he knew the young human wouldn't see the truth of his words. Besides, as much as he hated to admit it, he had to give the Sith Lord credit for his oratory skills. Despite the impersonal front of his mask which filtered out any human expression, there was a deep-rooted certainty in his words. It was clear now why this man had followers - anyone wavering between viewpoints would be captivated by his strength and conviction. Unfortunately for Revan, the Doctor had never been much of a waverer.

"Oh, stop with the impassioned preaching. It's annoying," he demanded scathingly. "No, I'm not going to give my superior technology to your evil army, so stop trying. We're both losing brain cells with all this prattling - not that it'll make much difference to you."

Darth Revan seemed almost amused as he replied: "And if I claimed that your technology wasn't my motivation...?"

"You'd be talking absolute rubbish."

"If that's what you choose to believe," the Sith Lord replied dismissively; he would doubtlessly pursue the matter later. "I have a battle to prepare for, but for now, tell me one thing. Why are you and your ship absent from the Force?"

The Doctor took a moment to consider his reply. He could always refuse to answer, and endure even more mindless pestering. Alternatively, he could tell the truth. The Time Lord immediately knew which option would be more interesting.

"Well, my name is the Doctor, I'm a super-intelligent being from another universe, I'm over two thousand years old, I belong to a race of aliens with thirteen lives and two hearts and my blue box is a time machine which contains an alternate dimension." For maximum effect, he put on the same devilish smile he had given Rusty the day before. "That should explain it."

A moment of unreadable silence permeated the buzz of the room's trio of energy cages - before Revan, who still seemed somehow unfazed in his determination not to react to the Doctor's seemingly ridiculous story, spoke.

"Well, Doctor..." he said coldly, his mask's mental counterpart firmly in place over his emotions, "...the fleet is entering hyperspace in less than a day. When I return after the battle, I sincerely hope you'll be more cooperative." With that, the Dark Lord of the Sith turned on his heel, the shadow of his cloak brushing across the floor as he crossed the detention block in a few brief strides. In the moment before the room's heavy door hissed shut behind him, he gave an almost imperceptible wave of one hand... and something hummed into life within the circuitry of the Doctor's energy cage. Without warning, a sparking stream of electrical bolts arced towards the unprepared Time Lord, slamming into his left side and sending tendrils of electric current flickering across his skin and into his body. This was the truth of people like Revan: they might hide behind persuasive words or righteous speeches, but in the end they would always resort to violence and torture, because that was all they knew. _Pitiful_.

Whatever the case, it seemed that this particular torture mechanism hadn't been designed for the Doctor's physiology. Without undue effort, the old Time Lord suppressed and contained the electrical charge, channelling it harmlessly... until he simply stood motionless, with a charred coat and a single shoe, bathed in the light of a torture field in the middle of an evil army, somewhere between the strange stars of an unfamiliar universe.

All in all, an average day for the madman with a box.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. I apologise for my terrible writing, and for the Doctor seeming a bit out of character - it's because he's being constantly reminded of the Time War. Next chapter will feature Malak's betrayal and the first appearance of Bastila... and the mystery of the elusive Time Lord tech will deepen. I hope this chapter wasn't too awful; feedback of all kinds is always appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this experiment of a first chapter! The next chapter will focus on Revan, as he struggles to control a mutinous Malak and a strange visitor somehow manages to crash-land on the bridge of his flagship.


End file.
